Explain to me the forest and the rain glittered pines; they trap moonlight and inspire. With flashes of Red; ancient grove of sunlight’s toil to towering trees of meadow boughs – dense and wet – thick and sometimes filled with mist. Yet there is something maniacal; some lunacy in the fern grotto; of where wraiths will enter; engulf the winds. They diminish and turn to showers. It lies in the pages of Grimm’s Fairy Tales; its sound is hushed like a myth. There is haunting echoes but a thrush so dense does not yield so brash a manner. Ethereal and vanish, wisp to bark; it clings – and so is thick with the mighty sap of Redwood. There is no thing to expel fear and stash fire in these boreal woods; that contain the waters, flow mist and vapor; fall heavy rains, contain ages and breathe life to more arid lands. I see in your hands the veins of the trees and settle for Moonlight in rare glimpses thru tree-top canopies in these most ancient of Redwoods.